


The Usual

by BDBriggs



Series: Curiosity and cats, and all that [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - GTA, Anxiety Attacks, Canon-typical language, FAHC, Fake AH Crew, GTA V Setting, Gen, Gun Violence, Panic Attacks, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-05-20 10:59:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19375354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BDBriggs/pseuds/BDBriggs
Summary: Ryan is used to being terrifying. Scared people are easier to manipulate. The fear is a necessary part of his job. But things are different with the Fakes, and sometimes he can’t help wishing he was a little less terrifying.





	1. Too Scary

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter!! There will be two more chapters, updated weekly (on Wednesdays). 
> 
> I've been working on this for weeks, and wow, it has wildly escaped my grasp. I had an outline, a word limit! 6k words max! The outline was ditched after three days, the 6k word limit trampled in four. 
> 
> Whoops. My hand slipped?

Inspired loosely by monsterpub's [art](https://monsterpub.tumblr.com/post/166721968550/day-23-hired-gun-in-which-the-fakes-hire-the) and [this](https://cheesemastergus.tumblr.com/post/182410886232/could-be-lets-play-gta-v-gtaliens-4448) gifset.

 

 

Look, Ryan knows he’s a scary guy. The Vagabond’s job is to kill whoever he’s paid to, quickly and efficiently. Ryan’s spent years building his reputation up to where it is today, and things have finally begun to pay off. He’s in a position where he can refuse a job without fear of retribution—not that he refuses many jobs, because he likes getting paid. And speaking of _getting paid_ , the Vagabond’s price has gone up higher than he’d ever imagined when he first showed up in Los Santos. He now owns several safehouses scattered around the city, a handful of expensive vehicles, and a respectable stockpile of weapons and ammunition.

And whereas Ryan started off with jobs from gangs and other lowly criminals, he now gets offered jobs by crews, gangs, and politicians alike. Anyone making a grab for power in Los Santos must be careful, or someone just might sic the Vagabond on them. People hire the Vagabond to send a message, to instill fear. Thus the skull mask, the face paint, the blue-and-black jacket, the violent destruction—all of it is carefully designed to inspire fear. That fear is what gets him clients, and those clients pay him damn well to do his job.

The Fakes are a little different than his usual clients, however. They don’t call on him to murder a target; they just want someone with a knack for destruction to lend them a hand with the LSPD for their next heist. And unlike his usual clients, the Fakes contact him for a second job. And a third. And a fourth, and—

—well. They keep offering him jobs, and he keeps accepting, despite his usual insistence on being a lone-wolf without a crew.

The point: Ryan is used to being terrifying. Scared people are easier to manipulate. The fear is a necessary part of his job. But things are different with the Fakes, and sometimes he can’t help wishing he was a little less terrifying.

* * *

When Ramsey first brings him to the penthouse to meet the crew, Ryan expects the usual. People keep him at arm’s length (further if possible), don’t speak to him unless necessary, and avoid eye contact at all costs.

He doesn’t get the usual with the Fakes.

Ryan gets four sets of narrowed eyes and the most standoffish behavior any crew has given him since before people started taking him seriously. Two guys stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Ramsey’s Golden Boy (if the gold sunglasses are anything to go by), bracketing him like bodyguards. A red-haired woman sits at the table, arms crossed, glaring at him. The four of them look thoroughly unimpressed by the Vagabond’s presence.

Ramsey takes his spot at the head of the table and gestures for everyone to sit. No one moves. After a tense moment Ryan crosses his arms and leans his back up against the wall, mentally noting escape routes just in case. Ramsey sighs, but ignores the awkwardness and plows ahead with the plans.

Ryan watches the crewmembers while Ramsey talks. The redhead tries to ignore him; she turns away from him as soon as Ramsey starts talking, but Ryan can tell she’s uncomfortable by the tense set of her shoulders, the way she keeps glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes. The guy in the purple hoodie has an air of nonchalance about him, his hands casually stuffed in his pockets, shoulders hunched a little, but he’s still standing with the other two. The Golden Boy is fidgety, turning his phone over and over in his hands. He looks everywhere but at Ryan, and it’s clear that the Vagabond’s presence makes him uncomfortable. The guy in the bomber jacket, on the other hand, won’t look _away_ from the Vagabond. Ryan looks over to see him glaring and, unusually, the guy doesn’t look away. Their eyes lock, and the guy actually snarls at him, lip curling.

The Golden Boy sucks in a breath and everyone looks over at the confrontation, waiting to see what the Vagabond will do. The Golden Boy looks like he might bolt at any second, but everyone else in the room reaches towards what Ryan assumes are weapons.

Peachy.

Ryan cocks his head to one side. “Problem?” He asks innocently.

The bomber opens his mouth, but Ramsey sighs loudly and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Michael, _please_.”

The bomber—Michael—throws his hands up in the air and yells, “Why the fuck did you bring the fucking _Vagabond_ here, Geoff?!”

Ryan looks on, vaguely amused. So that’s the problem; Ramsey didn’t tell his crew that he’d hired the Vagabond for a heist. And while that’s not exactly unusual, crews _usually_ don’t openly challenge their leaders’ hiring decisions. Then again, the Fakes don’t seem like a normal crew, if the rumors and news articles are anything to go by. While the Fakes are a fledgling crew compared to the others in Los Santos, they’ve been getting more media attention than even the oldest crews in the city. Their penchant for wild heists and massive amounts of destruction has already earned them a sturdy foothold amongst the criminals of Los Santos. Everything Ryan has heard of them is anything _but_ standard, and this odd standoff does nothing to change his mind.

The redhead stands and motions for Ryan to follow her out of the room as Michael and Ramsey begin arguing full-swing. He follows her to the common room, sits down on the couch when she gestures to it. Some of the conversation filters through to the common room, and “—he’s fucking terrified,” is all Ryan needs to hear before it becomes abundantly clear why the Golden Boy was flanked by the two tough guys in the crew, why he was fidgety and couldn’t look at Ryan, why he nearly bolted when things got tense.

Ramsey’s Golden Boy is afraid of the Vagabond.

The redhead clears her throat. “Sorry about them,” she says, not sounding terribly genuine.

Ryan shrugs. “I’m…used to people being uncomfortable around me,” he offers.

She looks distinctly unimpressed that he’s caught on. “Michael’s just _like that_ ,” she says, ignoring him completely, “you either get used to it now, or he kicks your teeth in until you do.”

And wow, Ryan’s never had to deal with such a rude and disrespectful crew before, not since becoming the Vagabond. His presence is clearly unwanted, so he stands and heads towards the door. “Contact me again if you still want my help,” he says, and walks out the penthouse, sure that he’ll never hear from the Fakes again.

He’s wrong.

Ramsey contacts him two days later and arranges for them to meet without the rest of the crew. It’s all business at first, plans and backup plans and crew policies, but then he apologizes for Michael’s behavior and gently asks him not to hurt the bomber.

Ryan blinks, startled. His clients don’t usually try to intervene on behalf of their crew members. Not that Ryan had really intended to get back at Michael, but it still throws him for a loop. When Ramsey takes his startled silence for refusal and reaches for his gun, Ryan wishes, perhaps for the first time, that the Vagabond wasn’t quite so terrifying.

“I’m sorry I startled your Golden Boy,” he blurts.

Ramsey freezes.

“I’m willing to work with you on this,” he says, earnestly, and he’s slipped almost entirely out of the Vagabond and into Ryan by this point. “I don’t want to cause friction by upsetting your crew. We can work it out so I don’t interact with your Golden Boy. I can work solo.” He’s not entirely sure why he offers such a thing—usually he’d be proud that a member of one of the most infamous crews in the city is afraid of him. Nine out of ten times he’d even play with his food, so to speak, doing everything in his power to appear as terrifying as possible. Right now, though, he doesn’t want to intimidate anyone; he wants to see where this job leads. He wants to work with the Fakes to see what the big fuss is, wants to see just what sets them apart from the other crews.

Curiosity and cats, and all that.

Ramsey carefully folds his hands on the table again and leans back, regarding him. “We work as a crew,” he says firmly. “You’re not working solo.”

“I’m not your crew,” Ryan points out, “but you can partner me with someone who I _don’t_ actively terrify.”

A corner of Ramsey’s mouth ticks upwards. “So I should partner you with Michael,” he suggests, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Ryan rolls his eyes, aware that Ramsey can see the gesture through the mask. “You want me dead? Because that’s how I end up dead.”

Ramsey laughs and Ryan grins back.

* * *

Radio chatter is… _interesting_ …with the Fakes. Normal radio usage is short, to the point, and only relays necessary information. Radio chatter with the Fakes is nonstop, like the crew is trying to fill the silence. Ryan was annoyed and frustrated by it, at first, because _who the hell cares that a firetruck just went by_ and _why does it matter if this car can make it up Chiliad_ and _oh my god will you all please stop BICKERING_.

He gets used to it eventually.

Not that he participates—he keeps his use of the radio strictly to the business at hand. _Target down. All clear. Extraction in thirty seconds. Get down._ When they’re just prepping for a heist, however, he barely needs to use the radio, which makes it understandable that some people forget he’s listening at all. And by _some people_ he means—

“Michael, make sure the Vagabond knows about the heist attire for next week,” Gavin says. Ryan pauses where he’s crouched on a rooftop, marking spots where sticky bombs should go with green tape.

“Tell him yourself,” Michael grumbles back.

“But Michael, he’s scary!”

There’s a beat of silence before Michael says, slowly, “You realize he can hear you, right?”

Ryan turns on his comm to agree just as Gavin squawks, “WHAT?!” and he bursts out laughing instead, right into the comm where everyone can hear him. And it isn’t his scary and cruel _Vagabond_ laugh that comes out, no. The laugh is croaky and dorky, and there is absolute silence on the comms as everyone listens to it. Ryan knows he should switch off the comms because what if word gets out that the man behind mask of the Vagabond isn’t actually all that scary, that he laughs like a complete dork, but he pushes that thought away and tries to stop the helpless laughter escaping him instead. 

“Hi,” he manages at last, laughter still clear in his voice, “I can hear you.”

Gavin makes more horrified squawking noises, quickly drowned out by the rest of the crew laughing. Ryan’s heard them laugh before, of course, but it’s different to laugh along with them. It reminds him of his partner in the Agency. More than that, it makes him feel like part of the crew.

“Fuckin’ idiot,” Michael says fondly, still laughing at Gavin.

“Sorry,” Gavin says quietly, sheepishly, and Ryan knows he’s afraid the big bad Vagabond will take offense.

Ryan rolls his eyes and picks up the tape he’d dropped. Gavin’s fear of him is nothing new, and he takes pity on him as usual. “What was that about heist attire?” He asks, and Gavin’s relief is a tangible thing.

* * *

Bets and games are common with the Fakes. Nobody in the crew can resist a challenge or a dare, and the games get so wild and reckless that Ryan can’t help but join in—Vagabond persona be damned.

Because nothing inspires fear like the Vagabond pedaling through Los Santos on a shitty bicycle during a race.

Ryan outwardly complains, of course, but there’s a voice in his head that points out that maybe it’s not so bad. The Vagabond’s reputation is well solidified in Los Santos. He’s still the scary boogeyman in the dark, a fact that remains unchanged by the ridiculous heists he’s helped the Fakes pull off. And he realizes that if he _stays_ with the Fakes, he doesn’t need to be terrifying _all_ the time. He doesn’t need his reputation to win them over, doesn’t need to rely on his reputation to get him his next paycheck. Before such thoughts can become dangerous—before they can turn into _hope_ —Ryan pushes the thoughts away and tries to slip back into the Vagabond, just to be safe.

Anyways. Today is nothing new. He and Michael set out to get a cargo-bob for their next ridiculous game and it’s…not going wonderfully. Ten minutes in and they already have the LSPD on them (Michael’s fault) and they’re down a car (Ryan’s fault). Michael ends up stealing a cop car and leaving Ryan behind, cackling madly over the radio. Ryan rolls his eyes and hides, giving the LSPD the slip in hopes that they’ll focus on Michael rather than him.

The cackling becomes curses, so Ryan figures he’s been successful.

Once the immediate danger has passed, he comes out of hiding and looks around for a vehicle he can steal. There’s not much traffic around the airport, given that there’s a high-speed police chase occurring on the runways, but there are a few unfortunate civilians standing around. Ryan barely notices them, too busy scanning the area for a usable car, but _they_ certainly notice _him_. The civilians scream, all high-pitched and frankly over-the-top, scattering as he nears them.

“Why does everyone scream as soon as I run by?” Ryan asks, mildly offended. The screaming alerts a security guard by the back gate of the airport, who yells frantically into a radio, probably calling reinforcements. Great. Ryan decides to sprint past the guard instead of engaging, because they _really_ need a cargo-bob, and Michael’s not making any progress with how he’s screeching around the runways in a stolen car with the cops after him.

Michael seems taken aback by his question. “Well that’s a…reputation you’ve built for yourself,” he says slowly, carefully. And okay, Michael might have a point there. Reputation aside, lately he’s been murdering far less people than usual. Case and point, he just spared a security guard who _definitely_ just called for reinforcements, because some of the cops chasing Michael have peeled away and are rapidly closing in on Ryan.

“But I’m not even wearing the mask!” Ryan protests. He hops the fence into the airport and sprints towards where the cargo-bobs are usually kept, zig-zagging when the cops start shooting at him.

“Yeah, because the face-paint is so much less terrifying,” Michael says drily.

Ryan huffs. “Hey,” he grumbles, “It _works_.” He darts around the corner of the building and runs as fast as he can towards the first cargo-bob he sees.

“A little too well, sometimes,” Michael has the gall to laugh at him.

Ryan’s inclined to agree.

* * *

Heists with the Fakes are both wonderful and terrible for Ryan. On one hand, they always include plans for maximum violence and destruction, giving the Vagabond a chance to rain down chaos upon Los Santos. On the other hand, something _always_ goes horribly wrong and they end up winging it or scattering to the winds. While Ryan’s not exactly _scared_ of plans gone wrong, he’s used to having everything in his control when he’s on a job.

It’s different with the Fakes.

For one thing, even if he were the one planning the heists, one of the Fakes would inevitably screw something up. It’s in their nature, he decides, to fuck something up at the worst possible moment. It’s just what makes the Fakes the crew they are, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to change anytime soon. Ryan can’t help being endlessly frustrated when they screw something up and it falls on him to bail them out.

Gavin promised he wouldn’t accidentally trigger the alarm this time, and Ryan actually has faith in his promise. The alarm had startled Gavin so badly last time that Ryan’s sure he’ll be much more careful this time around. He’s not sure that the others won’t screw up, but he’s confident the alarm won’t go off at least.

Jack’s the getaway driver, patiently waiting around the corner in their heist vehicle. Ray’s up on a nearby rooftop as a lookout, ordered not to engage because he’s still recovering from a recent confrontation with the LSPD. Geoff, Gavin, and Michael are in the bank with Ryan; Gavin and Michael to get the vault open and carry the goods, Geoff to oversee the heist from the ground. Ryan’s tasked with intimidation; the big, scary Vagabond is the prime choice to terrify the bank tellers and unfortunate civilians into submission. Ryan’s done this plenty of times before, so he’s not particularly worried on his front, but maybe he should have been because—

“Hands up!” He yells at the handful of terrified civilians in the bank. “Everyone down on the grd—ground!”

Laughter starts up immediately behind him, Geoff’s loud whooping laugh louder than any alarm. Michael cackles from the doorway to the vault.

“What was that, Vagabond?” Michael says through a shit-eating grin. “Get on the what?”

“ _Ground_. Shut up,” Ryan says through gritted teeth. The civilians are nowhere near as terrified as he’d like because of his unfortunate flub. The assholes laughing behind him aren’t helping matters. He turns around to give them all his best glare and sure enough, Geoff’s laughter subsides. “Less laughing, more vault-opening,” Ryan grumbles at Michael and Gavin, who won’t stop chuckling.

Michael opens his mouth to retort when Ray’s voice crackles through the comms, “LSPD incoming!”

Geoff swears colorfully and rushes to the window. Ryan raises his gun at the civilians. “Which one of you called the els—LS—FUCK!” Ryan nearly throws his gun down in frustration, making an aborted movement with his arms instead. Of _all the times_ for his mouth to fail him, it had to be during a heist. Geoff’s whooping and Michael’s cackling start up again, and this time they’re joined by Jack and Ray laughing loudly over the comms. He can hear Gavin squeaking from further in the vault, too. Ryan snarls, grateful for his mask covering his frustrated expression, and shoots a warning round at the wall behind the civilians. “Nobody move!” He yells at them.

Geoff starts shooting behind him, still laughing, and Ryan moves to help, shooting out the window at approaching officers. The LSPD are really out in force today, he notices; one of the civilians had to have alerted them to the Fakes’ heist, because Gavin didn’t set off the alarm. Ryan realizes with a sinking feeling that _he_ screwed up the heist this time; _he’d_ flubbed, and the civilians didn’t take him seriously enough to sit quietly.

Gavin and Michael run out of the vault carrying bags of money, which Ryan takes as his cue to run out the front doors and start shooting like a madman. He might get offered primarily assassination jobs as the Vagabond, but he’s still damn good at causing wanton destruction and chaos. _Distracting_ chaos. Sure enough, the LSPD prove to be much more interested in fighting the Vagabond than reclaiming the bank’s stolen money, and the Fakes run unseen towards Jack’s waiting car.

“You want help over there, man?” Ray asks over the comms.

“Nah,” Ryan says, “I got it.”

He does not, in fact, have it. The LSPD have him pinned in moments. He dives behind a stopped car to reload, hoping there’s no one inside to drive his cover away. He’s wildly outnumbered and, while he brought a _lot_ of ammo with him, it’s nowhere near enough. Ryan grits his teeth. He’ll be lucky to survive this, but at least he can buy the Fakes enough time to get away.

“Come on out, Vagabond!” An officer yells. “Let’s do this the easy way, shall we? No one else needs to get hurt!”

Ryan doesn’t move, listening for footsteps and movement to get a sense of where the officers are. Ignoring the LSPD’s sad attempts at negotiating has become second nature to him, anyways.

“Are you gonna answer them, or are you just giving up on words today?” Ray asks over the comms, and Ryan can _hear_ the smug grin on his face.

Gravel crunches to Ryan’s right—he jumps out of cover shooting and yelling, “Fuck you!” at both Ray and the cops, because _goddammit._

Raucous laughter echoes through the comms as four people in one car, plus Ray, all laugh hysterically. Ryan yanks his earpiece out so he can focus on slaughtering the LSPD. And spite must be more powerful than all the ammunition in the world, because he _wins_.


	2. Getting Soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan really likes working with the Fakes. The radio chatter that used to drive him insane has become highly entertaining. The outlandish plans, the crew’s insistence on winging things that their plans didn’t account for, the ridiculous games and death-defying stunts—he’d miss it all if he left. 
> 
> So, Ryan endeavors to be on his best behavior for the Fakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure why the theme of this chapter is "sadness", but that's how it turned out. Have some angst! It will lighten up considerably in the third chapter, I promise <3

Working with the Fakes gives Ryan a chance to see how crews operate on all levels. Geoff isn’t overly secretive about his plans, so he gets a good window into what crew leaders do. Ryan does most of the messy work the crew requires—intimidation, taking out LSPD on heists (or during bets and games, when the crew draws too much attention), and anything else involving killing—so nothing’s changed on his end. He’s also in contact with the B-team pretty often, especially Trevor and Lindsay, because _someone_ needs to clean up the bloody messes he leaves behind, and it’s easier if he passes information directly to the B-team instead of waiting for them to find the mess on their own. Deals and negotiations with other crews are new to Ryan, however. He’s never had to get information or supplies or power by _talking_ rather than _killing_.

Thank goodness Geoff brings him on as a bodyguard for deals, and not a negotiator.

He’s been getting better at understanding crew business the more Geoff brings him along, though. And Geoff really seems to like the statement it makes, to have the Vagabond standing at his side, so he gets brought along pretty often. A year ago, Ryan might have protested or even left entirely, disgusted by someone making a grab for power by using the Vagabond’s reputation, but he doesn’t mind now. Things are different with the Fakes.

The more he’s around the negotiations, the more he gets the hang of them. He learns the song and dance; when to look more intimidating, when to back off, when to reach for his gun. He gets to understand Geoff’s side, too, just a little—he’s nowhere near the appropriate level to be a negotiator for the Fakes, but he might suffice in a pinch. And the more negotiations he attends, the more Geoff seems to trust him. A treacherous little voice whispers in Ryan’s ear that he could _use_ that trust, that he could destroy Geoff and maybe even the Fakes from his position, but he throws that voice behind bars and refuses to listen to it.

The thing is, Ryan really likes working with the Fakes. The radio chatter that used to drive him insane has become highly entertaining. The outlandish plans, the crew’s insistence on winging things that their plans didn’t account for, the ridiculous games and death-defying stunts—he’d miss it all if he left.

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back.

The more time that passes, the more Ryan realizes just how deep he is; he doesn’t want to betray or leave the Fakes. It’s not up to him if he gets to stay or not, but he fervently hopes that Geoff will keep offering him jobs. He wants to stay, and more than that, he’s become terrified of leaving. The thought of returning to the Vagabond, murdering people and taking jobs from the highest bidder, fills him with dread.  

So, Ryan endeavors to be on his best behavior for the Fakes. He does his assignments as quickly and efficiently as possible. He gives Geoff a “discount” supposedly because the Fakes contact him more often than his other clients, but it’s really so Geoff can’t complain about paying the Vagabond’s ridiculously high price. He’s extra careful around Jack and Gavin, who both still don’t particularly trust or like him. He _cannot_ screw up, because then Geoff would have a reason to stop calling him in for jobs.

He’s been so careful lately, and the crew has certainly picked up on something. Michael challenges him to make something explode on his next murder-job, waving a wad of hundred-dollar bills at him, but Geoff had asked him to be quiet for this one. Usually the Vagabond would take the money regardless of orders, but _he can’t screw up_. Michael gives him a disappointed look when he comes back without having set off an explosion, and a ball of anxiety settles like a pit in Ryan’s stomach. But then Geoff gives him an enthusiastic thumbs-up, oblivious to Michael’s challenge, so Ryan ignores the anxiety and counts himself safe.

He takes to playing video games with the lads after Ray badgers him into joining a Mario Kart race (which he loses horribly, much to the lads’ amusement). Gavin is still visibly wary of the Vagabond, so Ryan sits on the far side of the room from him, with at least one of the lads between them at all times. Other than some residual awkwardness between himself and Gavin, Ryan gets along with the three lads well enough. He and Michael share a penchant for violence and destruction, and he finds himself humoring Michael’s crazy plans in games and real life. He and Ray are two of the better marksmen in the crew, so they end up partnered together on heists a lot, and their easy partnership transfers to video games.

Video games between the four of them are typically loud and violent and fun as hell, not that Ryan would admit that last part out loud. He finds himself hoping that one of the lads will beckon him over to the TV whenever he’s around, even making excuses to visit the common room more often. And while Ryan’s never spent his free time with the crews he takes jobs from, he’s comfortable hanging out with the Fakes.

But Geoff walks in on them playing Halo one night, all four of them screaming at each other in a round of red vs. blue, and Ryan jumps in alarm. It’s too late to hide what he’s doing, especially since he just screamed “GAVIN STOP DOING DONUTS IN THE WARTHOG I CAN’T SHOOT ANYONE,” so he freezes in place instead, waiting for Geoff to move from where he’s stopped in the entrance to the common room. He’s distantly aware of the warthog exploding and Gavin squawking loudly, but he can’t look away from Geoff. His sudden quiet makes all three lads turn to look at what has his attention.

Geoff unfreezes from his spot by the door and walks over to them. “The _Vagabond_ plays video games?” He asks incredulously.

Ryan is eternally grateful for his face-paint in that moment, as it hides the intense blush he can feel spreading across his face. “I—well, Ray asked me to—I, um, I just…” He stammers, much to the lads’ amusement. Geoff’s mustache twitches, but he doesn’t laugh, and Ryan begins to panic because _Geoff doesn’t find this funny_. He’s been caught goofing off by his boss, and he’s not one of the lads, he’s not part of the crew. He’s the Vagabond, and he should know better than this.

Ryan remembers what happened the last time he goofed off too much, got too comfortable, got too _soft_. The Agency disciplined him and his partner harshly, and then hunted them down when they refused to come to heel. He _can’t_ go through that again, wouldn’t survive a second round. Ryan shoves his controller in Michael’s direction, scrambles to his feet, and flees towards the elevator, ignoring the lads’ dismayed sounds behind him.

Geoff says nothing, even as Ryan passes him on the way out, and the panic that had been building hits him full-force like a freight train. The ball of anxiety swells larger in his stomach, spreads to his airways and chokes his lungs. He manages to get into the elevator without incident, but the shaking starts as the doors close. His throat constricts painfully, and suddenly it’s all he can do to keep breathing. By the time he reaches the garage, he shakes so badly that he nearly misses the seat of his Zentorno when his knees buckle.

“You alright, Vagabond?”

Ryan whips his head around to face the voice. It’s Jack. She’s in the mechanic bay, wrench in hand, dismantled parts scattered at her feet.

She frowns at him, taking in his frazzled appearance. “Vagabond?” Ryan opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ , but the words won’t come—his throat’s still closed, making it hard to breathe and impossible to speak. So instead he starts his car and flees into the night.

Geoff tracks him down to one of his personal safehouses in the city a few days later and shows up alone. It makes Ryan uneasy, that the Fakes tracked him to one of his safehouses, but he takes comfort in the fact that has several more that are hopefully undiscovered. Ryan doesn’t say a word when Geoff walks into his house, doesn’t ask how he found him, or how he opened the door.

Geoff, thankfully, gets right down to business.

“Jack thought you’d killed someone,” he says. “Thought you’d killed one of the crew and ran away. She came out of the elevator screaming like a banshee until she registered that all four of us were fine.” Geoff paces when he’s upset, and Ryan miserably notes that his pacing is even more agitated than usual. Geoff continues, “Then she told us how you’d shown up in the garage and nearly fell on your ass trying to get into your car. That you looked horrified to see her and drove away without a word.” The pacing stops and Geoff walks right up into Ryan’s space, backs him into the kitchen counter. “I want an explanation.”

Ryan’s silent for several minutes, mulling over his words. He hasn’t been disciplined since his time with the Agency, and the parallel stings more than he’d like to admit. He shouldn’t be so afraid; the Vagabond should be able to stand up for himself, should be able to tell off even one of the most powerful crew leaders in the city, but Ryan can’t even bring himself to look anywhere but Geoff’s shoes.

“I’m sorry,” he says at last. “I’ll do better.”

Geoff is silent for a beat. “Better at _what_?” He asks, sounding surprised. Then he holds up his hands and says, “Never mind, we’ll come back to that later. Vagabond, I don’t want you to _do_ _better_. I want to know what happened in the penthouse the other day.”

Ryan can’t find the words to explain his fear of leaving the Fakes. Admitting it would give Geoff a leash over him, something he can’t allow to happen. The whole reason the Vagabond doesn’t join crews is to protect his freedom, to keep crews from owning him like the Agency did. Ryan loves working with the Fakes, and he doesn’t want to leave, but he also doesn’t want to lose his freedom.

After several more minutes of silence, Geoff sighs. “Vagabond, c’mon. Something spooked you in the penthouse.” Ryan nods once. “What was it?”

“You,” Ryan admits, voice low.

Geoff goes quiet, probably considering, but the ball of anxiety bubbles up from Ryan’s stomach, claws its way out of his throat, and comes out as a shaky exhale which _might_ be considered a sob if it were accompanied by tears. Geoff ducks his head to try to meet his eyes. “You’re afraid of _me_?” He asks, voice gone soft.

Ryan hesitates. “I…sort of?” It’s a question, more than anything, because while he’s not directly afraid of _Geoff_ , he’s afraid of _leaving_ , which Geoff has control over. Ryan swallows thickly and looks up, finally, to meet Geoff’s eyes. “I don’t want to leave,” he admits.

Geoff frowns, his brows furrowed in a mix of concern and confusion. “You don’t want to leave…the Fakes?” He asks, and Ryan nods. “Fuck, dude, no one’s making you go!” Ryan looks down at his shoes again, unable to hold the eye contact. “What—who wants you to leave?” Geoff asks, sounding shocked.

Ryan’s admission from moments ago echoes between them, unsaid. _You._

“I caught you goofing off,” Geoff says slowly, realization dawning, “and you think I’m going to give you the boot.” Ryan shrugs, but Geoff’s hit the nail on the head. “I bet other crews you’ve ran with aren’t so… _lax_ about stuff like that,” Geoff continues.

Ryan shrugs again. “Never been in a crew,” he says.

“Never?”

Ryan shakes his head. “I didn’t want things to be like…” He doesn’t know how to explain the shitshow that was the Agency by the end, so he breaks off and says, simply, “I can’t let anyone own me again.”

Geoff stiffens. “Vagabond…I don’t own you. I don’t own the people in my crew, either. They can leave whenever the hell they want. Ray’s been making noises about going off and doing his own thing, and I won’t stop him if he really wants to go.” Geoff leans forward and grasps Ryan’s shoulders. “I called you for a job because we needed an extra hand on a heist, and we needed someone capable of massive amounts of destruction. I called you for a second job because you were damn good at it, and by the tenth job I realized you’d done more jobs for us than you had for any other crew in Los Santos. I figured you wanted to stay on some level, officially or not. I know Jack and Gavin are uncomfortable around you, but you’re not only aware of it, you’re careful with how you interact with them. That, more than anything, is what made me keep calling you for jobs, and is what will make me _keep_ calling you.”

Ryan swallows thickly. “I feel awful that I make them uncomfortable,” he says quietly. “Sometimes I wish the Vagabond wasn’t so scary.”

Geoff snorts. “You’d be less scary if you didn’t talk about yourself in the third person,” he jokes. “But I’m serious. You can leave if you want, and I’m not going to kick you out because I saw you playing video games and hanging out with your crewmates.”

That gives Ryan pause. “My crewmates?” He echoes, daring to look up.

Geoff smiles, his eyes crinkling around the edges. “You’ve been running with us for almost a year, now,” he says with a shrug. “It’s high time I formally invited you to the crew…if that’s something you’d like. There’s no pressure.” Geoff squeezes his shoulders once before letting go and backing out of Ryan’s space. “We can keep contacting you for individual jobs, if you’d be more comfortable, but I’d like for you to be an official member of the Fakes. I admit I didn’t know how to ask the Vagabond to join my crew, or I would’ve asked sooner.”

“Now who’s talking about the Vagabond in the third person,” Ryan elbows him gently. “I…yes. I would like to join.” He looks up, fully, and squares his shoulders. “I want to be a member of the Fakes.”

Geoff grins at him and offers his hand to shake. Ryan takes it, heart singing with joy as he does. “Welcome to the crew, Vagabond,” Geoff says formally. And then, because Geoff’s an asshole, he adds, “No take-backs!”

Ryan elbows him a little less gently. 

* * *

Ryan loves his vehicles. They’re as much a part of the Vagabond persona as his outfit is; rather than inspiring fear, as his outfit is meant to do, his vehicles are a symbol of his status and reputation. His work as the Vagabond has made him _rich_ , and he can flaunt his wealth through vehicles better than anything else. He largely prefers his Zentorno over his other vehicles, partly because it was expensive and he loves to show it off, but also because it’s become his signature vehicle at this point. He’s never let anyone into his Zentorno before, never trusted anyone to get so close to his metal baby before.

He doesn’t mind the Fakes getting close to it. He even lets Jack take a look under the hood, lets her make a few improvements for him. He _trusts_ them, he realizes when he takes all three lads out for a nighttime drive in it. That night is one he’ll remember for a long time; Michael and Gavin bickering over radio stations, Ray pointing out every location where the Fakes have done something stupid, Ryan getting them all burgers at a drive-thru, the four of them driving around the island just for the hell of it.

The Fakes must appreciate his Zentorno, too, because they ask him to be a getaway driver for a heist when Jack needs to pilot a cargo-bob. He agrees because he’s been driving his Zentorno for years, and what could go wrong?

Everything, apparently.

Ryan takes a corner too sharply, cursing when his tires squeal loudly and the Zentorno drifts for longer than he intended. He recovers before the LSPD reach them, but the trail of cop cars definitely gains on them. To take some of the pressure off Ryan, Geoff leans out the passenger window and shoots behind them. He takes out the front tire of the nearest car, sending it careening into a tree and creating a nice bottleneck for the cops behind it. Ray whoops loudly over the comms, apparently watching from Jack’s cargo-bob above them.

“Turn left!” Jack screeches at him right as he goes through an intersection, and look, Ryan’s more used to following orders than being a getaway driver. He spins out horribly, takes out a lightpost, and ends up facing the horde of LSPD cars chasing them. The first two cars sail past him, going too fast to stop or turn in time. Several more screech to a stop in various orientations around him as they try to avoid crashing into him and each other. Geoff screams a litany of curses and ducks back into his seat.

Faced with a fleet of angry and trigger-happy police officers, Ryan does the only thing he can think of: he floors it. The Zentorno is _quick_ , and he leaves the LSPD in the dust before his crew can even start yelling at him. He knows he’s wildly off course for their plans, but they’ll have to make do. It’s not the first time they’ve had to flee, nor the first time they’ve had to split up to separate safehouses.

“Head back west!” Jack yells over the comms. “We don’t have any safehouses out that way!”

Ryan curses. There’s no way he can go back the way he came; he’ll lose any lead he had on the LSPD. Going further into the city at this point is suicide; there’s too many cops stationed there. His only option right now is to head north towards Blaine County, where the Fakes don’t have much of a foothold.

“Turn around, Vagabond,” Geoff says, “Jack’s right. There’s nowhere else we can go.”

Ryan’s mind races as he tries to think of another solution besides driving straight towards the LSPD. They can head towards Chiliad or loop around the entire island and hope no one notices, but the LSPD would have time to construct roadblocks by then. If Ryan were alone, he’d just head towards his personal safehouse and— “I have a safehouse in Blaine County!” He blurts, desperate for any plan whatsoever.

Geoff and the others go silent. Ryan keeps driving, heading towards the freeway that will take them out of the city. The LSPD have faded to a blur of lights behind him, enough distance between them that he can get out of this mess, if Geoff trusts him enough to use one of the Vagabond’s safehouses.

“Okay,” Geoff says quietly. “Get us to it. We’ll stay there until the guys give us the all-clear.”

Ryan lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding and floors it. His beloved Zentorno delivers them to safety without incident despite the bullet holes, crumpled metal, and missing bumpers. Ryan’s safehouse is a shitty little one-bedroom house, the first property he bought in Los Santos. As soon as he could afford a place in the city he bought an additional apartment there, but he kept this one just in case. It’s served him well as a place to hide when the LSPD or an angry crew got on his tail, and he’s especially glad for it now.

He parks his Zentorno in the garage and waves Geoff in. First order of business is to look for his first aid kit, because he and Geoff both got a bit scuffed up in the fighting and crashing. Second, he needs to make food. After that he’ll worry about who gets the bed and who gets booted to the couch. He disappears into the bathroom to find the first aid kit and comes back to see Geoff gaping.

Ryan stops short. “Geoff?” He asks, “You okay?”

Geoff closes his mouth with a snap and looks at him, bewildered. “Why do you have so many cows?”

Ryan glances over to the corner of the living room where, yes, there is a shelf crammed full of cow-related knickknacks. There’s a cow plushie, a paint-by-numbers cow figurine (stolen, not something Ryan did himself), a cow pez-dispenser, and several other toy cows. He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “I—uh, they came with the house?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out sounding like a question, but it does because he’s a terrible liar. Geoff gives him a flat look, clearly not buying it. He debates giving Geoff another excuse or changing the subject entirely, but he remembers that Geoff agreed to come to the Vagabond’s safehouse, alone, with no backup plan to speak of.

_Geoff trusts him_.

“I had a partner I used to work with,” Ryan says at last. He somehow can’t look Geoff in the eye, so he opens the first aid kit and begins laying out the contents on the coffee table. “We used to challenge each other to steal random things from a target’s home. One time he challenged me to steal this shitty piggy-bank painted like a cow, and for some reason it just…caught on.” Ryan grins. “We nearly got caught that one time. The coins in the cow kept rattling every time I moved, and when we had to run out of the house it was so _loud_.” Geoff bursts out laughing, and Ryan’s smile turns wistful. “From then on, if we found anything cow-related in a target’s home, we _had_ to bring it home. He would also buy me cow-related things for holidays.” His smile fades. “I…I lost our hoard of cows when…well, the Agency…” Ryan takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “Things went badly at the end. They separated us, tried to kill us, and we both lost track of each other when we fled. But then, pretty early on in my career as the Vagabond, I broke into some politician’s house and found the cow pez-dispenser on his desk. I had to steal it. Every so often I find a toy cow and either buy it or steal it.” He shrugs. “It’s pretty dumb.”

Geoff wanders over to the shrine of cows and picks up one of the little figurines. “That’s not dumb,” he says, “just…unexpectedly adorable.”

“You think it’s adorable for a highly-trained killer to steal cow-themed objects from people’s homes when he murders them,” Ryan deadpans.

Geoff glares at him. “Not that, moron.” Ryan laughs at the heat behind it. Geoff looks down at the figurine, turning it over and over in his hands, and continues, “It’s just adorable, somehow, that the big bad Vagabond collects toy cows to remember an old friend by.”

Usually Ryan would have been indignant at such a statement, at being called adorable, at the implication that he was _soft_. Instead, he shrugs. “He was a good friend.”

“I’m sorry you lost him,” Geoff says quietly.

“Me too,” Ryan says. “I wish we could have made it out together. I don’t even know if he’s alive.”

Geoff sets the cow back down on the shelf and walks over to sit on the couch beside him. “I mean, _you_ made it out alive. He could still be out there.”

Ryan lets a small smile cross his face. “I sure hope so,” he says, passing Geoff the hydrogen peroxide and a few packages of gauze. They set about cleaning and bandaging their wounds, a comfortable silence settling around them.

After a long while, Geoff clears his throat. “You know, I hope you eventually trust the guys enough to goof off with them like you did with your friend from the Agency,” he says, and Ryan mentally prepares himself for a continuation of the lecture he received the _last_ time he and Geoff were in one of his personal safehouses. “I mean…you’re usually all business, all the time,” Geoff continues. “You’ve been better since I cornered you in your place in the city and talked some sense into you, but you still barely hang out with us. You never stay for drinks or anything. I just—I hope you get comfortable enough with the crew to goof off with us.”

Ryan cocks his head. “I join the lads, sometimes,” he says. “Just a couple weeks ago we got fast food and I drove them around in my car for hours. I play video games with them, too.”

“I didn’t realize that you still spent time with them,” Geoff admits. “Still. You barely hang out with the whole crew, dude. You never join us for post-heist celebrations. The only non-work-related fact I know about you is that you hoard toy cows. I barely know the Vagabond.”

Ryan goes quiet. _The Vagabond_ and _Ryan_ have always been two separate people, to him. The Vagabond is the persona he dons when he works. He needs to be terrifying, he needs to violent and cruel and destructive. The Vagabond is all of that; the Vagabond is the threat that lurks in the dark of Los Santos. _Ryan_ is the person who collects toy cows in his partner’s memory, who flubs his words, who has the dorkiest laugh in the world. Ryan is the person who takes pity on Gavin when he’s afraid of the Vagabond, who plays video games with the lads, who drives his team around in the middle of the night. The Fakes have been getting to know the person behind the mask, behind the face-paint, and they don’t even realize it.

Explaining this would require explaining who _Ryan_ is, but he hasn’t told anyone his name since he escaped the Agency. The last time he even heard his name was his partner’s last desperate scream, “Ryan!” before the world exploded and he never saw him again. Ryan decided not to use his real name anymore after that, in hopes that the Agency would never find him. Now, though, he thinks he owes it to Geoff—not his name, exactly, but he owes it to him to _trust_. The Fakes have put their trust and faith in him, it’s time he did the same. He stands and makes his way to the bathroom, leaving Geoff alone in the living room.

Ryan emerges a few minutes later, face scrubbed bare of paint. “You already know the Vagabond,” he says at last. Geoff startles and his eyes widen as he takes in the lack of face-paint. “The Vagabond is the persona you hired. He’s the mask, the face-paint, the destruction and violence and chaos.” Ryan shrugs and sits down beside Geoff on the couch. “My name is Ryan Haywood.”

Geoff’s mouth opens and closes a few times, obviously too stunned to respond, but he recovers after a moment. “It’s good to meet you, Ryan,” he says, and they shake hands as if they’ve never met before.

Ryan grins at him, oddly relaxed for having just revealed his face and name for the first time in literal years. It’s not as terrifying as he thought it would be—in fact, it’s actually somewhat relieving. He resolves to show the rest of the crew, once the LSPD have calmed down enough for them to return to the penthouse.

Because what could go wrong? He has a crew now, a _family_ , and he trusts them all with his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware that the Zentorno is a 2-person vehicle, but according to the wiki Ryan owns no 4-person vehicles, so there wasn't much I could do. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!! <3


	3. Just Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look, the whole murder break thing was supposed to be a joke. Ryan kills a few civilians too many during one of their games and suddenly he’s the bad guy. Next thing he knows, the crew starts dropping ‘hints’ about how he murders too much, how maybe he should take a vacation.
> 
> Because that's going to end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter!!! I am so excited to finally be able to share this with you. I had so much fun writing this one, because holy shit Sassy Ryan is fun to write.

Inspired by rysarts' [comic](https://rysarts.tumblr.com/post/167465333425/do-you-want-coffee-when-geoff-was-recruiting-a) (Spoilers for this chapter!)

 

 

 

Look, the whole _murder break_ thing was supposed to be a joke. Ryan kills a few civilians too many during one of their games and suddenly he’s the bad guy for ruining Matt’s already-shitty plans involving cargo-bobs, cars, and the Maze Bank building. So _maybe_ they had to dodge the cops before they could get to business, and _okay sure_ it took them the better part of an hour to do so, in which Gavin, Jack, and Geoff all complained loudly over the comms. But they got to play their shitty game after all!

Next thing Ryan knows, the crew starts dropping ‘hints’ about how he murders too much, maybe he should calm down, take it down a notch. Geoff leads the effort, waving expense reports and news articles at Ryan like they’ll convince him to change his murdering ways. Geoff ‘hints’ that maybe the Fakes could calm down a little, that with Ray gone they need to re-gain their bearings. He ‘hints’ that Ryan should take a vacation, that some time off would do him good. Then he drops one of his ‘hints’ in front of the others and suddenly the whole crew is in on it, pestering Ryan about his murderous habits. And it’s ‘hints’ in quotations, because hints are supposed to be subtle.

Hints from the Fakes are about as subtle as the Liberators they stole two days ago.

The Fakes seem to forget that Ryan is, by nature, a spiteful human being. They seem to think that they can tease and prod and poke him for weeks with no consequence, that they have no reason to fear retribution. They don’t seem to realize that Ryan gives as good as he gets, because here’s the thing: Ryan is endlessly patient. He can weather the longest and darkest storm with little to no complaint, but as soon as the first ray of sunlight strikes, so does he.

That figurative ray of sunlight comes in the form of another wild game north of the city. They’re all in the stolen Liberators, and while there was an objective twenty minutes ago, now they’re all far more interested in plowing into cars on the highway. Somewhere along the line sticky bombs and a rocket launcher enter the fray and Ryan laughs wildly at the destruction and chaos around him. It will _never_ get old, watching his crew crash into anything and everything, blowing things up as they go. The LSPD get involved before long, of course, because attempting to apprehend the Fakes has become their favorite pastime regardless of their negative success rate.

Ryan just watches the chaos unfold, his Liberator long dead, the truck mangled at the bottom of the mountain. Things have been quiet since Ray left the crew, and today’s wild destruction has been sorely needed by all of them. They’re still trying to fill in that empty hole that Ray left behind, still trying to adjust to fighting without their sniper watching their backs, and they haven’t done many jobs in the last few months. It’s just as good to see everyone laughing as it is to destroy things again.

Ryan’s fought through hell and back to get where he is today; all he wants is a moment to soak in the glory that is his crew and the explosions that follow them. He could step in and help them, true, but it’s equally fun to watch them scramble to face off with the LSPD—Liberators, sticky bombs, and rocket launchers at the ready. How the LSPD thinks they’ll win this fight, Ryan will never know.

Geoff must do a head count because he suddenly wails over the comms, “Ryan! A little help over here?”

Ryan shrugs and gets his phone out because really, the explosions and red-and-blue lights against the sunset look wonderfully cinematic. “Nah,” he says, distracted by trying to get that perfect angle on his camera.

“Nah?” Geoff repeats incredulously, “What the fuck, Ryan! Why not?”

Ryan grins. Sunlight at the end of a storm. “I’m on a murder break.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence before the crew vocalizes their disbelief loudly and by shrieking several variations of Michael’s eloquent, “What the fuck is a fucking murder break?!”

Ryan switches his camera to selfie mode, peels off his mask, and takes several pictures of himself with the beautiful backdrop behind him. “Ah, you know,” he says nonchalantly, “I’ve been getting this weird feeling lately that you guys don’t appreciate my skills enough. So…I’m on a murder break!” He grins for the camera as a particularly large explosion sends cop cars flying in all directions. He’ll set that one as his contact photo for sure.

Gavin squawks something unintelligible at him, clearly frustrated beyond words—not that frustrating Gavin to the point of bird noises is an accomplishment, exactly, but Ryan grins wider all the same. Geoff cusses him out colorfully, drowning out the others’ protests.

“I thought you guys would be proud,” Ryan says, feigning hurt. “You all complained about my tendency towards murder, so I thought I’d take a little break!” More cursing. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, “Have fun with the LSPD!” in the most cheerful voice he can manage.

Because payback’s a bitch.

Ryan hijacks a car and heads back to his own safehouse in the city, not trusting his room in the penthouse to remain clear of spitting mad Fakes for more than a few hours. But all in all, he comes home utterly satisfied with both the destruction he and his crew caused and with the argument he won after months of waiting for payback. And to top it all off, he has some _damn_ good photos to remember the night by.

* * *

So the murder break becomes a joke that he can’t get out of. He jokingly tells Michael that his murder break will last for exactly one month, even going so far as to mark the dates on the calendar. But then, because _of course_ it backfires, he realizes he can’t actually get out of the grave he’s dug himself. No murder, no killing, no real jobs for a full month. Non-lethal jobs only, and those are the boring ones. Ryan’s walked himself into Geoff’s suggestion of a vacation, and he’s not thrilled.

As Michael puts it, “You’re _fucked_.”

He is one hundred percent fucked, because he’s bored three days into his self-imposed punishment. Stealing everyone’s phones and laptops to change their backgrounds to his selfies from that night only keeps him occupied for the better part of a day. He cleans his room in the penthouse. He cleans his safehouses in the city, and then the one in Blaine County. He stocks up on ammo and weapons, then cleans and organizes the entire stockpile. He devotes half a day to washing and waxing his Zentorno.

He’s determined to stick it out, though, because he’s too stubborn to back down now. The Fakes can deal without his services for a month, and he’ll be as cheery as humanly possible whenever he’s around them. And that means he can’t be around them for more than a few hours at a time, because he is chafing at the bit and it’s already making him grumpy. If he can barely survive _three days_ , how will he survive a full month?

Ryan buys himself an Adder with the money he’s been hoarding since he joined the Fakes, puts further money into improvements and a black-and-green paint job like his Zentorno. He’ll never love the Adder as much as his Zentorno, but it allows him a modicum of privacy. Everyone in Los Santos knows his Zentorno by now, and if he can’t murder, he needs to not attract attention to himself. For once, he can drive around and be just another rich guy.

Gearing up his Adder keeps his attention for almost a week, leaving him nine days into his murder break. He ditches the Vagabond getup and takes to driving around Los Santos, noting locations for future heists and games. He’s being productive, he reasons, even if no one takes his suggestions into consideration. A part of him feels guilty for abandoning the crew for a month, but they’ve survived worse without him.

Besides, they brought this upon themselves.

Anyways, he’s out inspecting a series of buildings he knows belong to a rival crew, coffee in hand, when he hears a commotion behind him. He turns to see a masked thug booking it down the street, away from some poor kid in an oversized baseball cap screaming for his wallet. Ryan snorts in amusement and takes a sip of his coffee. The kid is fast—surprisingly so—but the mugger has a good head start. And the kid must not be from Los Santos, because he keeps running after the mugger, yelling at people to help him like he actually thinks someone will run to his aid.

Ryan replays that last thought in his head several times before deciding, _fuck it_ , and throws his coffee vaguely towards a trash bin before taking off in the mugger’s direction. No murder, he reminds himself. Easy; he doesn’t have a single weapon on him, he isn’t wearing the Vagabond’s signature clothes, mask, or face-paint, and he’s just going to help some kid get his wallet back. It’s quick entertainment that should leave him with enough of an adrenaline rush to keep him satisfied for a day or two.

Win-win, really.

Ryan’s not the fastest in the crew, but he knows the streets of Los Santos like the back of his hand. He vaults over a low wall and sprints down an alley, hoping to cut off the mugger from one end while the kid corners him from the other. Los Santos is full of dark side streets, and he plans to take full advantage of the fact.

Sure enough, he rounds a corner and sees the mugger running towards him. Ryan plants himself directly in the mugger’s way, broad shoulders working to his advantage. While he’s not dressed as the Vagabond, he’s well-built, and he’s as good as a brick wall in his position. The mugger skids to a stop and tries to turn, but the kid has caught up and full-body tackles him to the ground, immediately beating the shit out of him.

Ryan snatches the stolen wallet out of the mugger’s pocket, but otherwise stands back and lets the kid get his anger out. And he’s vaguely impressed, because the kid hits _damn_ hard and somehow keeps his hat on his head throughout the entire fight, even after taking a stray blow to the face. Once the mugger is suitably bruised and bloody, the kid shoves him one last time and backs off. The mugger looks at Ryan, which—fair, because he’d helped the kid corner him.

“Scram,” Ryan snarls, and the mugger bolts. He holds out the stolen wallet to the kid, whose shoulders sag in relief.

“Holy shit, thanks,” the kid says, breathless, “you’re a life-saver.”

Ryan smiles politely. “Any time,” he says, “though I wouldn’t expect help next time. Muggings are common enough here that people usually keep their heads down and walk away instead of helping.”

The kid scowls, barely visible beneath his hat. “Los Santos is a shithole,” he hisses. It takes a moment of staring at the kid’s beard for Ryan to register that it’s not a _kid_ , just a short adult, and he is definitely using an oversized baseball hat to cover his face.

Ryan just laughs. “I mean, you’re not wrong.” The guy holds out his hand to shake, but pauses halfway, taking in the blood covering his fists. Ryan ignores the blood and shakes his hand anyways. “Nice to meet you…?”

“Jeremy,” the guy says, and shakes his hand firmly. Ryan gets a good look at his face, finally, and blinks several times because it’s—it’s his partner from the Agency, who should have died _years_ ago, standing before him like nothing ever happened.

“Holy shit,” Ryan says slowly, stunned.

Jeremy gapes up at him. “Ryan!” He yells, and _launches_ himself forward. Ryan rocks backwards from the force and wraps his arms tightly around Jeremy, who does his best impression of an octopus and wraps all four limbs around him. They cling to each other for a long moment, breathing shakily into each other’s shoulders, until Ryan’s arms ache from the strain.

Ryan gently sets Jeremy down and swallows thickly. “Jeremy,” he says quietly, reverently. “I—what are you _doing_ here?”

Jeremy shrugs almost sheepishly. “I got paranoid,” he admits. “Skipped around the country until I didn’t have anywhere left to go except here. It was a last-ditch effort to lose—to lose _them_.”

Ryan frowns at the barely-hidden fear in his former partner’s voice. He had been afraid at first, too; that fear had driven him to Los Santos years ago. He’d hoped the Agency would be too afraid to follow him to the crime-ridden city, and he’d been right. They stopped tailing him even before he started his career as the Vagabond, though, so he never left the city again. “The Agency won’t dare set foot in Los Santos,” Ryan says. “They haven’t followed me here yet.” And maybe the admission is a mistake, because Jeremy’s eyes narrow immediately.

“What are _you_ doing here, Ryan?” Jeremy asks, just a hint of steel in his voice.

Ryan holds his hands up in surrender, a lopsided grin spreading across his face. “Same as you, hoping the Agency wouldn’t follow me here. I haven’t heard or seen anything of them in years.” Jeremy looks like he has more to say on the subject, but a noise from Ryan’s left has them both whipping around.

The mugger from earlier stands in an opened side gate leading into an apartment complex, arm curled around his ribs. And he’s not alone, either; Ryan counts five people in easy sight and sees vague movement further in that tells of more. And, because the universe hates Ryan, they’re all carrying guns and wearing bandanas over their faces. He mentally notes the location as something to report to Geoff later, because _holy shit_ that’s a lot of gang members.

“Run!” Ryan yells, turning and sprinting away. He helps Jeremy vault the wall he came in over, jumps it himself, and together they take off running. Jeremy mutters a steady stream of curses under his breath and Ryan feels a strong urge to protect his Battle Buddy, to grab on and never let go.

_No murder_ , he thinks, and he scowls. He’d prefer to unleash hell on the gang, but that’s not an option for three more weeks. They’ll have to run. “My car’s this way,” he says, and he darts down a side street to avoid the populated plaza he’d stopped for coffee in. Jeremy nearly runs straight past his Adder when they reach it, giving him a look of utter disbelief when he unlocks it.

“This is _yours_?” Jeremy asks breathlessly, diving inside and fumbling for the seatbelt.

Ryan grins as the engine roars to life. “Just bought it,” he admits, as if that makes it any better that he owns a stupidly expensive car, and God forbid Jeremy finds out about his Zentorno at this rate. Then he floors it, because gang members spill out of the building next to them. He outright whoops with exhilaration as he leaves the gang in the dust, bullets peppering his bumper. Jeremy cheers along with him, dancing in his seat when they reach the freeway unhindered. And Ryan can’t help but be a tiny bit disappointed, because usually gangs throw their weight around a little more, chase him a little farther. But Ryan’s not the Vagabond today; he’s just some rich asshole, and Jeremy’s just an unnamed new guy. There’s no real reason for the gang to chase them beyond their own territory.

On impulse, Ryan swings by a drive-thru. He and Jeremy ascend the steps to his safehouse laden with burgers, fries, and milkshakes. Jeremy shares his story first—escaping the initial attack by the Agency with second degree burns and a few new scars, and then heading back home to Boston. He holed up there for a few years, protected by his clan’s influence, but eventually the Agency got bold and chased him away. He’d fled to New York, made his way down the coast to Florida, then across the country to Texas. He stuck around there for a few years before the Agency showed up again, and he fled to Los Santos, where he’s been for two weeks.

Ryan shares his own story, with admittedly fewer details. He explains that he’d wandered around the country for a year, the Agency hot on his tail, before heading to Los Santos. He’d bought a house in Blaine County, then bought and sold additional safehouses every few months, never staying in one place for long. He’d looked into the city’s extensive criminal underground, taking jobs whenever he needed, saving money all the while. He admits to joining a crew, though he doesn’t tell Jeremy about the Vagabond or the Fakes, and he assures Jeremy that he’s content where he is.

Jeremy doesn’t press for details, which Ryan is endlessly thankful for. They slip back into their easy friendship from years ago, starting up Ryan’s Xbox and munching on fries, shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch. Ryan barely notices the passage of time until Jeremy conks out on his shoulder around three in the morning.

And suddenly, Ryan’s murder break is no longer a punishment or a prison; there’s no way he can be bored if he’s with Jeremy the whole time. He takes Jeremy to Chiliad, to Vespucci, to all his favorite eateries. They cruise around Los Santos in Ryan’s Adder, play video games, and visit all the cheesy tourist spots together. Time really flies when you’re having fun, Ryan thinks, because his remaining three weeks pass in the blink of an eye. Geoff calls him the day before his murder break ends, the first real contact Ryan’s had with the crew all month.

“Gavin was attacked by a rival crew,” Geoff informs him solemnly. “His injuries are minor, but we need all hands on deck.”

Ryan curses and glances out into the living room where Jeremy waits for him, their game paused on the TV. “Alright,” he says quietly, “give me half an hour to finish things up here and I’ll be at the penthouse.” Geoff doesn’t question him, thank goodness, just hums in affirmation and hangs up. Ryan turns back to the living room. “I have to go,” he tells Jeremy. “My boss called. He needs my help.”

Jeremy frowns. “When will you be back?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Could be hours, could be weeks. One of my crew members was attacked by a rival; there could be a hit out on me, too.” Ryan beckons Jeremy over to the kitchen, where he opens a drawer and removes a false bottom. He keeps a reasonable stash of money in all of his safehouses for emergencies, all hidden in case of break-ins. “Here,” he hands Jeremy a wad of hundreds, “I’d feel better if you had money to get your own place. I don’t want you getting mixed up in my crew’s fight by staying in my safehouse.”

Jeremy accepts the bills, but he doesn’t look happy. “I can help, if you want,” he offers, because the he’s nothing if not loyal.

Ryan smiles. It’s sweet of him to offer, but he shakes his head. “I appreciate it, and I’d love to have you fight by my side, but this is between my crew and our enemies.”

“I can take care of myself,” Jeremy reminds him, a tiny bit of steel creeping into his voice.

“I know,” Ryan says, and he means it. He’s seen Jeremy take on every challenge that came their way with gusto. They’ve waded through horrific battles, faced impossible odds, fought through hell, and survived everything life threw at them. There is no room to doubt Jeremy’s ability to take care of himself. “You wouldn’t be alive today if you couldn’t,” he adds.

“Damn straight,” Jeremy grins.

Ryan huffs a laugh. “It might be a long time before I can contact you. Don’t fret too much, alright?”

Jeremy punches him in the shoulder with no real heat behind it, and Ryan heads to the penthouse. His murder break is over; it’s time for the Vagabond to send a stern message to whoever dared attack his crew.

The situation turns out to be a little more dire than Geoff let on. A rival crew, the Bones, has been gaining territory steadily over the last few months. When Ryan left for his murder break, the Bones were on the list of potential threats but didn’t have enough power to attack the Fakes directly. And maybe they should have been a little higher on the list, because they grew bold in the month Ryan was gone. They seem to have made alliances with several of the Fakes’ rivals, bolstering their power and numbers. In the last week Ryan was gone, they hit two of the Fakes’ properties in the city and then attacked Gavin in broad daylight.

By the end of the meeting, Ryan sees red. _Nobody_ fucks with his crew and gets away with it, but Geoff reins him in. The Fakes will have to be careful in how they respond, he reasons, because the Bones have proven to be shrewd opponents thus far.

“We’ll bide our time,” Geoff tells him, “wait to strike at the most opportune moment. Right now, we need more information, and we need to get it subtly.” Geoff gives him a lopsided grin. “The Vagabond isn’t exactly subtle.”

Ryan concedes the point, but he still feels restless, like he needs to be out there fighting for his crew _right now_. Geoff puts the B-team to work gathering intel while the rest of the Fakes hunker down in the penthouse and prepare for war. Ryan helps Jack get the vehicles in order, looks over the B-team’s intel when it comes back, and helps Geoff plan their next move. He throws himself into the planning, the preparation, fully intent on bringing the Bones down for good.

_Nobody_ fucks with his family.

Time flies as fast as it did during his murder break, if not faster. The hours and days pass nearly without him noticing, blurring together until a month has passed, then two. Trevor gets them information slowly, bit by bit, one morsel at a time. Meanwhile, the Bones keep amassing territory and numbers and weapons, and it’s making them all fidgety and nervous. Ryan has no doubt in his crew’s abilities, but the Bones are the most difficult opponent they’ve faced in a long time, and they no longer have Ray to watch their backs.

He’s deep in thought in the heist room one evening, drawing out plans on one of the whiteboards, when Geoff announces, “We’ve got a new recruit.”

Ryan startles at the sudden voice. Geoff leans into the doorway, shit-eating grin on his face. Ryan raises a brow, unsure of why Geoff is telling him this, or why he’s grinning like a shark. “…Okay?”

Geoff’s grin widens, if possible, as he walks in and plops down into the chair closest to Ryan. “The Bones hired a mugger to steal from Matt, but the mugger turned himself in to the B-team.”

Ryan turns that sentence over in his head a few times. “He turned himself in, or the B-team kicked his ass and he broke under pressure?” He asks, because the scenario Geoff is describing is outlandish. A mugger who _doesn’t_ want to hit the Fakes? Unheard of.

Geoff shakes his head. “He turned himself in. Told Trevor he didn’t want to be on the Fakes’ bad side and—fucking _gave_ us all the information he knew about the Bones. A nice list of locations and names that’ll serve us nicely. He’s been working with the B-team since.”

Ryan is immediately intrigued by the promise of new intel. “Care to share with the class?”

Geoff flaps his hand dismissively. “We’ll get to that in the morning.”

“The _morning_?”

“We have a new recruit,” Geoff repeats firmly. “We haven’t gotten any new blood in ages. I need your help with him.”

Ryan frowns. “You want me to train the guy?” Geoff looks at him like he’s a moron, which might be fair, but it takes a minute for Ryan to understand what Geoff’s getting at. “Oh.” His shoulders droop as the realization hits him. “You want me to scare the new guy.”

“Yes!” Geoff slams his palm on the table and leans forward. “The guy’s new to Los Santos, hasn’t seen the Fakes in action yet. He’s a little on the gullible side, and the Vagabond might actually make him shit his pants. Just go all caveman on him for a few days, play up the insanity a bit.”

Ryan sighs and slumps against the wall. The Kingpin of the Fakes has the infamous Vagabond in his crew, and he wants to use him to _scare a recruit_. “Goddammit, Geoff.”

Geoff shoots him a shit-eating grin. “So, that’s a yes?”

Ryan mentally debates refusing, but it _is_ fun to scare people as the Vagabond every now and again. “Fine,” he relents, “now either give me the new intel, or shoo.” He turns back to the whiteboard and winces when Geoff whoops loudly and pumps his fist into the air.

This crew.

Two days later sees Jack literally dragging Ryan out of the heist room, downstairs, and into his room. “You’re no good to us if you’re a zombie,” she insists as she shoves him towards his bed. “Get some actual goddamn sleep. You’ve been at this for weeks.”

“I can’t just _stop_ ,” Ryan protests, but Jack cuts him off with a murderous glare.

“You need to rest,” she insists. “Get a full night’s sleep and I’ll consider letting you back into the heist room after breakfast tomorrow.” She turns on her heel and leaves him alone in his room with fourteen hours to kill before even the earliest risers in the crew will wake up.

Ryan showers and flops onto his bed without even bushing his hair. Jack’s right; he’s exhausted. He barely manages to get the covers over himself before he conks out and sleeps like the dead for eleven hours.

He feels like shit when he wakes up, too, a combination of the exhaustion of the last few days and too much sleep all at once. A glance at his phone tells him it’s too early for anyone in the crew to be awake if there’s no business today. Granted, he’s not sure anyone would have told him if there _was_ business, but the penthouse is silent around him, so he assumes everyone is asleep. Still, he’s hungry, and there’s no way he’s going to wait three hours for Jack to wake up and make breakfast.

A quick search of the kitchen reveals a box of donuts that Ryan dives for. He makes coffee before scarfing one down and picking out two more because fuck it, he deserves some kind of reward for all the planning he’s done in the last few weeks. He hears the elevator ascend while pouring himself a mug; there must have been some business this morning after all. He grabs another couple of mugs for whoever comes up and sets them by the coffee maker.

The elevator doors open with a cheerful _ding!_ and Geoff says, “—oh, there he is!”

Ryan turns around, plate and mug in hand, donut jammed halfway into his mouth, suddenly _very_ aware of the fact that he’s still in his pajamas, horrific bed-hair probably standing up in all directions. Then he freezes in the middle of the kitchen, bewildered, because of _all the people_ he expected to walk out of the elevator, Jeremy was not one of them.

Jeremy recovers first. “Hey Ryan!” He waves cheerfully, grin spreading across his face.

Ryan hastily bites his donut in two, stuffing half into his cheeks, the rest falling to the plate in his hand. “Hey, Jeremy!” He greets around his mouthful. “Want coffee? Donuts?” Jeremy bounces over to the counter and makes grabby hands at the donut box. Ryan laughs and slides it over and pours two more mugs of coffee, sliding those over as well. “What brings you here?”

Jeremy swallows a mouthful of donut and shrugs. “Well, uh, I recently got a new job. Came up to discuss future plans.”

Realization settles like a pit in Ryan’s stomach. “You’re the new recruit,” he says matter-of-factly. He looks up at Geoff to confirm and has to bite his lip to keep from laughing, because Geoff looks like someone mugged his grandma and kicked his puppy. He looks miserable, dejected even, because _Jeremy_ is the recruit he so badly wanted to terrify.

“Guess I fucked that one up,” Ryan says by way of apology. “Whoops.”

Geoff covers his face with his hand. “ _Goddammit_ Ryan.”

Jeremy, oblivious to the prank-gone-wrong, glances back and forth between them. “What’s fucked up?”

“He’s the goddamn Vagabond.” Geoff says in the most pitiful voice Ryan has ever heard, muffled slightly by his hands.

Jeremy blinks once, twice. His mouth opens and closes several times before he finally squeaks, “I’m sorry?”

Ryan shrugs sheepishly. There’s no hiding it, no salvaging the prank. “I’m the Vagabond,” he admits. “Geoff was hoping to scare the shit out of you by introducing us.”

Jeremy snorts and just starts laughing hysterically. “I should have known, you dramatic theater kid, you,” he wheezes. Geoff drops his hands from his face and stares uncomprehendingly at them.

Ryan grins, doing his best not to look at Geoff lest he start laughing, too. “You’re not upset?”

“Nah,” Jeremy shakes his head, laughter subsiding, “I think to be upset, I’d have to be surprised. I’m…not really surprised. I mean—days after you left because of an attack from a rival crew, I hear that the Fakes have gotten into a gang war. You also own an Adder with the Fakes’ colors. Didn’t really take much to connect the dots, man.”

Ryan supposes that’s fair. “Still, it’s a stretch to figure out that I’m the Vagabond.”

“I didn’t know you were the _Vagabond_ ,” Jeremy says, “but again, I’m not surprised. I’ve seen how good you are at causing destruction, and I put up with your dramatics for _years_.”

“Good point,” Ryan concedes. He slides a mug of coffee over to Geoff, who still stands in the middle of the room. “Coffee?”

Geoff sits down on a stool and folds his hands on the counter, clearly trying to take back control of the situation. Ryan can see the way Geoff wraps the Kingpin persona around himself like a shroud, or maybe more like a safety blanket considering the situation. “So,” Geoff says at length, “care to explain how you two know each other?” Jeremy looks at Ryan, clearly unwilling to tell the story without permission. And Ryan—Ryan considers lying purely out of habit, but several memories of himself and Geoff come to his mind unbidden.

Geoff holding onto his shoulders like a lifeline, trying to understand Ryan’s fear so he could _alleviate_ it, not cause more.

Geoff shaking his hand after offering him a place in the crew, and again after meeting the man behind the mask, firm and steady.

Geoff turning a toy cow over and over in his hands, kindly consoling him after hearing his story.

Ryan trusts Geoff. He always has, and Geoff has repaid his trust in kind. He could simply say that Jeremy is his partner from the Agency; Geoff already knows much of the story, and Ryan has come to trust him and the rest of the crew with his secrets by now. But Geoff looks like he’s having a crisis. His carefully-constructed prank has been ripped out from underneath him like a yanked tablecloth, his control of the situation wobbling like the dishes on top—seconds away from either steadying or crashing to the floor.

Ryan grins, because while he loves his boss, his crew, his _family_ , he gives as good as he gets, and he’s still a little put out about the whole murder-break thing. “Jeremy is my Battle Buddy!” He says cheerfully, sending Geoff’s control tumbling to the ground, shattering into teeny, tiny pieces. Jeremy grins widely in return, and they high-five hard enough to make Ryan’s arm rattle.

“Yeah, Battle Buddies!” Jeremy cheers, pumping both fists into the air in victory.

Geoff’s expression turns flat, numb, _dead_ , and Ryan laughs and laughs. He might be sleep-rumpled, disheveled, covered in donut sprinkles, but he is the goddamn _Vagabond_ , he is _terrifying_ , and Geoff had better not forget it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! And thank you for your lovely comments, I was blown away by all the kind words. I love you all <3
> 
> I have a sequel planned for this, focusing on Ryan and Jeremy, but it probably won't be ready to post anytime soon. In the meantime I have a couple other fics in the works, so watch out for those.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! <3


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